It's inevitable
by gayfordiannaagron
Summary: Slightly AU. Everything changes for Rachel when she sees Quinn for the first time in the Spotlight Diner. A story about love at first sight—Except, not really.
1. Chapter 1

**I decided to take a different writing approach to this, so apologies if you have a hard time reading it. The speech marks [" "] will be strictly used for the dialogue between Rachel and Quinn only. **

**Happy reading :)**

**I own nothing. **

* * *

**1.**

Koi No Yokan (Japanese):_ The sense upon meeting a person that you are going to fall in love with them. This differs from _love at first sight_ as it does not imply that the feeling of love exists_—_only the knowledge that a future love is inevitable._

**•••**

**The first time Rachel saw Quinn. **

The lunch hour in the Spotlight Diner didn't have its usual midday peak. Rachel sat in a corner booth, the top half of her body hidden behind the semi-gigantic menu propped up in front of her against a sugar container, reading the script to _Funny Girl_. She had read the four hundred or so pages through to the very end last week—as soon as she received it, in fact—but the midday quietness gave her opportunity to exhibit talent number seventeen of her most admired personal features: over achiever. She felt this was necessary. To her, there was no such thing as _take two_, as every line that she delivers during rehearsals will be flawless on the first take. So she read again the scene in which Fanny's mother dissuades her from show-business, closing her eyes to memorize the lines and delivering it in a whisper. She imagined what it would be like to say these lines in front of a sold out audience on opening night and everyone gasping in awe of her performance.

She lets her mind wander, as it usually does when she thought about the future of her Broadway career. She'll be invited to lavish parties every weekend and have the pleasure of signing autographs for her legion of fans, and she'll be honoured to read the hundreds of obscure stories written about her in magazines. She has spent nineteen years of her life preparing for the fame and acclamation that's no doubt heading her way once she makes her Broadway début. Rachel knows she's no longer the sixteen year-old who started in Glee as an outcast due to her under-appreciated talent and social awkwardness, she's grown wise and maybe even a little cynical since then, but she's still the same ambitious girl with dreams of a grand Broadway career, and since she's dreaming anyway, she might as well dream big.

She glanced across the room at the customers having lunch, at Kurt hurriedly carrying the stack of plates and glasses into the kitchen, at the little girl sitting in the table in front of her drawing on the back of a napkin, at the bored expression on Santana's face while she's wiping the table, at Dani dabbing herself with a towel because she was sweating. The roar of dishes, chairs, voices, shuffling feet and the racket of utensils in the room was like a din of a single huge machine.

Suddenly, she realized then that the restaurant hadn't lost its midday peak after all. More and more people began arriving to wait behind the wooden barricade of the cash register to pay for their bill, Gunther's hands were flying in and out of the register, like a sort of trance. Watching Gunther made her think about Santana almost showing him her left boob just so Rachel could get the job. It didn't make any sense. Why wouldn't Gunther want to hire her? She has an extremely large determination and ambition, not to mention her impeccable singing and graceful dancing skills.

She continued to look around the diner in her position, not bothering to get to work even at Gunther's stern, I will fire you this instant if you don't get off your ass and take some orders. Through all the commotion of the diner, his words could've easily been misconstrued. That's what she told herself anyway. Everything around her was like a slow explosion: a sudden outburst of voices overlapping with one another that made it seem like a bomb had detonated in the room.

Gunther was enraged, she could tell by the deep crease in his forehead and the way his mouth was slanting downward, twitching uncontrollably. She sat for another ten minutes, waiting for him to scream at her one last time, but he didn't, and the anxiety began to tire her. She stared at her feet and up to the clock, and back to her feet again. It was when she glanced at the clock for the last time that she saw the girl for the first time.

The girl was sitting halfway across the room and talking while her group of friends were nodding idly. She had a magnetic face, and Rachel thought that they're probably the same age. Before today, she's never seen anyone who literally took her breath away. At first sight, she noticed the lazy-lidded eyes and the devilish curved lips. Later, after the shock of her looks wore off, Rachel noticed the fair light skin, the low-cut blonde wavy hair, and the long elegant hands. Rachel watched her with absorbed interest. She pointed to a section on the menu while Edwardo took their orders, and then she laughed at something one of her friends said, and Rachel heard her say,

"Okay, whatever, I'll have the same."

Their eyes met the instant the girl stood from her booth and turned, coming across the room towards Rachel. She was tall (that's not to say that Rachel regarded anyone taller than her as _tall_), and slender, her figure graceful in the peach-coloured dress, accentuating her complexion a powdered milky white. Her eyes were hazel, sparkling, dominant as light or fire, and caught by them, Rachel couldn't look away. She heard Gunther shouting at her, repeating over and over again for her to get back to work, but she sat there, mute. The girl was looking at Rachel, too, with a preoccupied expression as if half her mind were on whatever it was she was thinking about, and though there was no more than fifty people in the room, Rachel felt sure that there was only her and the girl in the diner.

The girl's steps ascended towards her, Rachel heard her heart stumble to catch up with the moment it had let pass, and felt her face grow hot as the girl came closer and closer. It was strangely compelling, the way the girl was looking at her; it thrilled and frightened her a little.

The sugar container moved, and the propped menu fell flat. Gunther had pushed his way across the room to stand in front of her to say, Rachel, do you wish to remain working here or should I terminate you this instance due to poor performance?

The shock that followed this appalling declaration that she's a below average employee lasted a second as the girl's figure passed Gunther's small frame and Rachel's eyes shifted away from the girl's hazel ones to her delicate neck—lingering a moment on her collarbone—down to the length of her arm, the way she stepped back involuntarily when the bathroom door opened, sort of like a kind of dance, and then there was a ghostly pause. When Rachel stood up, the girl was looking at her with calm eyes that she could neither face nor look away. Rachel was very conscious of their height difference, she memorized it, saying to herself how perfect it was. Gradually, part by part, Rachel watched her step inside the bathroom as slow as when she had come, saw her glimpse at Gunther, the tiniest of smiles plagued her lips. Then she disappeared into the bathroom. The door closed with a loud thump. It was funny, when she thought about it later, the sound of the closed door was significant above all else.

Blinded by the sight of the girl and confused by the incessant flutter of her heart, she stood swaying for a moment before she perceived Gunther in the corner of her eyes. She was confused by his being there and said, Hi, Gunther. What's the matter? You seem upset. He inquired calmly, though his body shook violently, What's the matter? Oh, nothing's wrong. Just, you know, a busy afternoon of chaos and disorder in the restaurant and one of my employees decides to sit leisurely in a booth reading her Broadway script because she thinks she's too good to work in the restaurant!, the octave in his voice rose higher and higher as the sentence finished.

His stubbly index finger pointed at her when he said the last word. Rachel stared at it for a moment, and then looked upward trying to remember where she was and how she got here. She started to say, Oh, I'm so sorry. I wasn't—, but he cut her off mid sentence, remarking in a determined voice for her to get back to work. When she scrambled to get out her notepad, he added, Not here. In the kitchen. You're on dish washing duty.

Dishing duty wasn't as bad as it sounded. She quite enjoyed it in the kitchen more than she did out in the diner—no complicated procedures with money, taking orders, and the sense that customers were incommunicado with the employees—there was freedom in working while she rinsed the dishes and utensils and placed them in the dishwasher. She liked the steam that rose from the machine once the cycle was complete, and the way the heat felt on her hands when she dried them. Today however, it was the gloomiest event of her day.

She worked with an indefatigable patience; rinse, wash, dry. She stood stiff stacking the dishes, feeling unattached to anything or anyone. Isolated. She went into Gunther's office with orders to send a fax, which seemed to take hours, but when she looked at the clock, only fifteen minutes had passed, and then the _ding_ of the dishwasher was calling for her again.

Once in a while she'll peek out into the diner to get a glimpse of the girl. Unfortunately for Rachel, the girl's table was located out of eye sight from the kitchen, and as much as she tried to sneak her way out, feigning nonchalance and wanting to help her fellow comrades, Gunther was never too far away barking orders for her to return to the kitchen.

She was conscious of the moments passing like irrevocable time, irrevocable happiness, for in these last seconds, she might never see the face she wanted to see again. She was conscious too, dimly now and with a different horror, of the old, unceasing voices of customers calling for assistance and the low humming of the jukebox and clutter of money—part of the storm that was closing in and separating her from the girl.

The lunch hour peak ended at two thirty-four, she knew this down to the exact second because Santana barged through the kitchen doors declaring, Thank god that catastrophe's over. My physicality was not built for this kind of exhaustion, and Rachel pushed passed her with an aggressiveness she didn't know she had. The table where the girl had sat was now empty and her eyes wondered aimlessly onto other tables in the diner, stopping at every blonde head. She felt a sinking in her heart at the realization that she would never see that face again.

Rachel returned to the kitchen and tried to think of something else. Of the possibility of going home to visit her fathers for Thanksgiving. Of the beautiful black and red Norwegian sweater she saw at _Bloomingdale's_ and made a note to remind her fathers to buy it for her for Christmas (they didn't celebrate Christmas, but that didn't mean she wasn't entitled to receiving presents). The square window across the room looked like a painting, the small section opened to a white sky. She loved New York, had loved it since she was a toddler, and dreamed of coming back here since she was six and being on Broadway, and yet, it was the sight of a blonde-haired, five foot six girl that has become the record-breaking event to send shock waves through every nerve ending in her body and coax her into wakefulness. She was in a state of dumbfoundment, or something.

On her way home, New York City seemed different. The racy, adventurous feel of the night, the satisfaction of the clicking of her heels and the constant flicker of lights. She stopped by a magazine stand and picked up a copy of _Vogue_ with Cate Blanchett on the cover and imagined that as she went to pay for the magazine she'd bump into the girl she had seen in the diner, and they would romantically enter into each other's lives.

Neither of her imaginations happened.

For the longest time she searched for the same face in the streets of New York wherever she went. In her mind, they would introduce themselves to one another, Rachel would shake her hand and resist the urge to put her lips against them. They'd walk along the footpath chatting casually about their likes and dislikes and Rachel would tell her the first time she had seen the girl in the diner, she felt the strange sensation that she knew her from somewhere, and finally when they reached her apartment, they'd bid their farewells and the girl would smile back at her before fading into the warm darkness.

At times she felt a haunting loneliness, augmented by the presence of Santana and Dani acting like a married couple around the apartment, and Kurt making wedding arrangements on the phone with Blaine. It astonished her that she sees within the diner different faces day after day, the few faces she might have spoken to and never did, or never could. And on that enchanted Sunday afternoon, she had seen a face whose beauty evoked emotions that were never part of her consciousness, but the more she thought about it, the more she was sure they have always existed—resting dormant just beneath the surface of perceptibility. Now that they've broken through whatever barrier kept them locked away, she's become so harshly aware of them that it was physically painful.

Rachel was naïve, but she wasn't stupid. She was fuzzily aware these emotions could be categorized as obsessive. In high school she would generally label them as 'normal', but now, older and a little cynical, she frowned upon them. She had seen _Serendipity_ and ridiculed the plot to no one in particular about how unrealistic it was that fate brought Jonathan and Sara together again after years apart. It was equally ridiculous that she was relying heavily on fate to bring the pretty blonde-haired, hazel eyed girl back into her life. She did not have the slightest clue as to how this happened to her.

She went through three stages of grief and loss in no particular order. There was denial. She denied the reality that she will never see this girl again, blocking out the words and hiding the facts. The eye-contact they shared was magnificent, be it only five seconds, but it was the best five seconds of her life. The Gods that controlled the universe could not have been that cruel to bring this girl into her life only to never let them meet again? She suggested to Gunther to let her do twelve hour shifts because she wanted to be at work every minute of every day in case the girl returned. He denied, of course, saying it was illegal to let her do such a thing. He even had the nerve to undermine her ability to juggle twelve hour shifts and rehearsals for _Funny Girl_ at the same time.

Then came the depression. Or in Rachel's case, the correct term being _psychotic depression_ in which she lost touch with reality. There was still the regret and sadness of it all, but this involved hallucinations and delusions, such as believing the blonde girl walking behind her on Madison Avenue was her blonde pretty girl and that she's about to ask Rachel on a date and declare her love. There was also the incident on thirty-fourth street outside a department store where she saw the exact same peach-colored dress the girl wore and waited outside until sunset with the believe the girl was going to walk pass. When she went home that night, Santana had asked her why she was so late when her only duty was to buy cranberry sauce, and Rachel told her the truth. Santana smacked some sense into her the only way Santana could, by saying, You've really done it, Rachel. I thought I was wrong about you all these years, but now you've proved that you're a one hundred percent insane screwball and I have the proof.

Acceptance was easy after that. The universe had brought the girl into her life and it was an experience. She now knew what it felt like to have her breath taken away, and she'll forever be thankful for the best eye-contact anyone has ever given her. Life at the diner was simpler again. She stopped looking around for every blonde head and constantly eyeing the door. Soon, she was back to putting all her efforts into Broadway rehearsals and stopped taking work at the diner so seriously.

It was a fleeting moment, a fleeting glance. For all she knew, the girl was most likely staring at the Barbra Streisand poster that hung on the wall behind her head, because who wouldn't stare at Barbra? The girl probably never even noticed her.

Most of the time, in between college and the Spotlight Diner, she was at rehearsals. There wasn't an unscheduled moment from dawn to dusk, and to top it all off, most of her colleagues were amateurs at best. Every scene needed at least ten takes. She wasn't agitated by their performances—not everyone could be so lucky to have her talent and perfection.

For the fifth time that month, she arrived late for her shift at the Spotlight Diner and apologized profusely to Kurt—whom she was soon to relief—and Gunther. Kurt nodded in understanding and Gunther grumbled while she placed her belongings in her locker. She tied her hair in a messy bun and made her way to Gunther who summoned her with a stubbly hand to the cash register, and Rachel found herself unexpectedly peering into hazel irises. Her breath caught and her eyes widened in excruciating suspense. She was having a hard time sucking in air.

The blonde pretty girl looked directly into her eyes and it was as if time had turned back to that very same day three months ago. Her heart began beating the familiar rhythm, and she couldn't think, indulging in the pure sensation that nothing else mattered.

"I'd like to pay the bill," she said, leaning on the counter, looking down at the white slip of paper in front of Rachel.

"Yes." Rachel's throat was dry and she tried to clear it again.

Rachel entered in the register what she prayed were the correct buttons. It didn't help that the jukebox was playing Gabrielle Aplin's _Start of Time_ and the lyrics, _When you walked into the room just then, it's like the sun came out_, penetrated through her ear drums. The power of those words slowly reverberated their profound meaning. She couldn't help but smile.

"Are you paying cash?" Rachel asked in a scratchy voice.

"Credit," she said, picking up a pen.

Rachel watched her hand flow pleasantly along the paper as she signed along the dotted line. Her nails looked as though they were recently manicured.

"There you go. Is that all right?" The girl said.

Rachel noticed the girl's perfume for the first time, and instead of checking whether the signatures matched, she pressed something on the register and a final receipt printed. She wished with all her power to wish anything that the girl would simply continue her last words and say, "Please have coffee with me. I want to know all about you", but nothing came after the, "Is this all right?", nothing to relief the shame of having been recognized as an inexperienced waitress with the messy uniform. Rachel slid the receipt towards her.

The girl took her copy of the receipt and turned, slowly walking away and Rachel watched the distance widen and widen. Today she wore a black coat and jeans that hugged her legs, with plain black suede high heels.

After her shift was over she had the strangest idea to check the receipt the girl had signed, thinking that perhaps she might be able to observe the signature and find out her name rather than constantly referring to her as 'The Blonde Pretty Girl'.

She had expected to spend hours and hours decoding the stylish handwriting; instead, on the dotted line was a clear, _Quinn Fabray_.

The date was November 7th. She'll never forget it.

* * *

**The first time Quinn saw Rachel. **

There has always been something she hated about New York City. The streets were bustling with people walking in and out of department stores or a café or from a news-stand manned by a colorful employee who knew every actor and producer as though people with millions of dollars spend their free time chatting to a news-stand employee about their personal lives. There were cars everywhere. There were no parks where you could read a novel at lunch under a tree. In fact, there were no plants or trees. The buildings were huge, monolithic peach rectangles with no overhangs for shade, so the sun bounced off the white footpath and onto the windowless structures making the whole city look like every corner was lit by a spotlight.

Then there were the people. The way some of the women draped themselves over their husbands or boyfriends. They'd blow kisses to each other and swing their hands while walking. Not to mention New Yorkers were rude. One woman stepped on the toe of her shoe on the subway and walked off without an apology. New York had too many men, too many needy woman, not nearly enough freedom.

Quinn's current state of animosity towards New York City came down to the fact that Biff McIntosh broke up with her this morning. She never meant to not tell him about her past, it was never the right time, and they had only been dating for three months; you don't just blurt out everything about yourself in three months. And it was never as though she outright _denied_ she had a baby in high school and that she has a Ryan Seacrest tattoo, she just never mentioned it. It's completely different from lying. She could hear her father badgering her right now, muttering about Jesus not wanting to associate with sinners and that if she went to church she'll be back in his good graces.

She squeezed the bridge of her nose. Fisted her stinging eyes. Breathing deeply, she tightened her eyelids until dark spots danced behind them, but when she opened them again the pain was still there.

She walked down Broadway in Manhattan as the breeze lapped at her cheeks thinking about how she won't be going to France next summer. Biff wanted her to go with him. She won't be sitting with him in sidewalk cafés, walking with him in Aries, finding the places Van Gogh had painted, she and Biff choosing towns to stop in for the night. She shook her head and deliberately turned her thoughts to the smooth stretch of road in front of her and concentrated on the thrumming beneath the soles of her feet. It was a thrumming different to the sound of growling cars. She followed the thrumming and the closer she got she noticed the music, but more than that, a _voice_.

Quinn settled in front of a diner, glancing around impatiently. The party was well underway with high energetic music and the sound of content laughter. The nature of the diner eluded her, because just as she began to realize it wasn't any special party but employees singing to the customers, her eyes fell on the girl singing on the counter top. She was strangely, compellingly pretty. She had a well-modeled, sensitive face with features not bonily chic like those of a mannequin, but subtle, vital, harmonic. Her brown hair was drawn attractively around her tanned skin. She wasn't fashionably pretty but her beauty was healthy and real.

When the girl hopped off the counter top, the first thing she noticed was her short stature. Not dwarf short, but short enough to be called _short_, and for a while she stood there thinking how the girl would react if Quinn made fun of her height. Quinn watched her tap a boy beside her whose hair looked as though it were trimmed everyday and they both laughed. She had the sweetest smile. Quinn's limbs were still. Life was suddenly plentiful.

Slowly, the movement to her limbs returned and she reached out to place her hand on the doorknob. She could swear she pulsed and swelled in her position. When her foot touched the metallic floors of the diner, she heard someone call her name. She looked around—glancing past men in business suits, children in school uniforms and the bustling of traffic, past the unpleasant distractions—to find the source of that voice.

Rita ran towards her from the end of the street waving an enthusiastic hand in the air. She grabbed Quinn's arm and pulled her away from the diner. Quinn's feet were planted firmly on the ground so Rita had a hard time holding onto her, saying, What's wrong with you? You're so stiff. We're going to have fun, and that's when she remembered why she had come to New York in the first place. Because of her recent break up with Biff, Rita suggested they have a 'girl's day out' to cheer her up. Biff was the furthest thing from her mind, she had forgotten about him. She was struck by the reality of the day unfolding: clothes, shoes, jewellery, shopping bags. Earlier these things would've cheered her up in no time, but now all she wanted to do was walk into the diner and find out the girl's name. And maybe stare at her for an eternity.

She turned her head when they were waiting at a street light and saw the large neon sign: Spotlight Diner. Quinn repeated the name like a chant. Rita was talking about something she wasn't paying attention to and she didn't want to seem rude by taking out her phone and she didn't have a pen with her. It was only two words, and it wasn't as if she had early onset dementia, but just to be safe she needed to engrave it into her head so that even dementia wouldn't make her forget it.

Several hours later her heart was still thumping heavily in her chest at the thought of the girl. Quinn had grown accustomed to calling her 'The Short Brunette' only because it sounded adorable. The shopping made her forget the horrible events of the day, which was Biff and everything involving Biff, but it was the short brunette who shifted all the pain to the background and she was able to laugh.

Quinn dragged Rita eleven kilometers from Lower East Side back to Broadway in Manhattan telling her there was a great diner she had passed by in the morning. There was a sense of the unreal as they made their way closer; she's going to see the girl again, see her sweet smile and flowing hair. She's going to know the girl's name by the end of the day, probably even her address and what her bedroom looks like. She was getting too ahead of herself. One thing at a time, she said, and Rita said, What?, and Quinn shook her head, ignoring her completely and walked faster, her feet moving at the speed of light. But ten minutes inside the restaurant told her everything she had planned in her head was not going to happen. The short brunette was no where to be seen and by the time they finished their meal and paid the bill, she was on the train back to New Haven feeling as melancholic as when she arrived in the morning.

Day after day Quinn thought about her at least once, sometimes twice, other times she'd look for her in the streets of New Haven and they'd somehow fall romantically into each other's lives. Quinn will say to her, I saw you singing in the Spotlight Diner and you took my breath away. She had been watching too many romantic movies. The most recent one she saw was _Serendipity_ and told herself how ridiculous it was that fate was involved in getting two people together. If two people wanted to be together it wasn't because of fate, it was because they _wanted_ to be together. However, that night she found herself wishing that fate would bring the girl back into her life.

Fate never did answer her prayers though. She was back in New York twice over the next few months. One was for a birthday party and the other because she was bored, and decided to walk pass the diner. She saw the boy with the neatly trimmed hair cut and a taller Latina brunette. Her eyes scanned the restaurant longer than she had liked, hoping to hope the girl would magically appear out of nowhere. Fate was cruel.

New Haven wasn't particularly far from New York, two hours at the most. But she wasn't going to visit New York everyday with the slight chance of seeing the girl again. It was obsessive, and completely stalkerish. No, she was not _that_ girl. She didn't believe in love at first sight. There's no such thing.

Besides, she had school and a life here, and she wasn't the most financially stable person on the planet.

For a while she lost sight of the girl, she could hardly remember what the girl looked like aside from her sweet smile and long brown hair, and then in mid summer she was reminded of her again. She was supposed to get off at Stratford to meet a friend for lunch, and sat behind a girl with brown hair who, for a heart-stopping moment, Quinn thought might have been _her_ short brunette, but then the girl turned around and asked her in a deep, unsultry voice, Do you have the time? Quinn gave her the time and stared at the back of her head until the girl got off and Quinn followed. It wasn't until she was standing smack-bang in the middle of Grand Central Terminal did she finally admit to herself she was screwed. Her second thought was, since she travelled all the way here she might as well stop by the diner.

She wasn't expecting anything. She had given up hope and had resigned to the fact that the girl was lost, they were never going to see each other again. Which was true when she arrived and stood outside the restaurant and couldn't see her. She contemplated whether she should go inside, because what was the point when the object of her affections wasn't there?

Sighing, Quinn adjusted her bag before walking away. She was slightly taken aback when the doors opened and watched the hem of a red skirt flounce by in a hurry like it was late for something. Quinn was barely able to focus before realizing it belonged to her short brunette. Through the haze in her head she saw the girl push pass her and walk in the opposite direction. The scent of her perfume lingered in the air.

Quinn was so blitzed with adrenaline she didn't realize she had said, "Excuse me," her vocal chords moving on their own accord, and the girl replied,

"I'm so sorry, did I bump into you? I didn't mean to. I'm late for a meeting."

Her stomach flurried at the girl's endearing voice, and she began to hyperventilate. The girl looked tired, like she hadn't slept in days. It was such a stark contrast from the first time she had seen her. She didn't wait for Quinn's reply and hailed for a cab; not that Quinn would've been able to say anything in return anyway.

Looking up at the buildings, with the sunlight through the windows making a constant flicker, she loved New York. She couldn't believe she ever said she hated it. And it's this moment that she feels in love with being alive.

By the time the fall semester was in full swing, Quinn felt like she was so far behind the curve that she could eat, sleep and breathe course notes and never be able to catch up. College buried her in acting, design and playwriting assignments and some days she left campus wondering whether she enrolled in college or joined the cast of _Survivor: Drama Island_. She had to write an essay on World War II and it wasn't until she was halfway through _Post-Impressionism World War II_ when she wondered why she had to take all the standard academic courses. Life had suddenly become a ball of chaos. She had the time to get away to New York once, and that time she didn't see the girl in the diner. In order to see her short brunette, she relied heavily on dreams and imaginations.

The idea has struck her once or twice. The 'Move to New York' idea. Okay, it's struck her about ten times and usually whenever she sees a brunette girl on the streets which is basically all the time, so let's just say she thinks about it a lot more than necessary. It sounded simple enough. She could get a job at the diner, transfer all her credits to an exceptional college like NYU, AADA or even NYADA. And surely she'll have no problems getting accepted. Her grades are way above average, plus a change of scenery would be good. She's even filled in several application forms for the next semester. Once she's finished thinking about all the pros, Quinn weighs the cons against them: She had no idea which school the girl went to, she might not even go to college. Quinn couldn't see herself as a singer. Her singing voice was steady and harmonic, but the idea of busting into song randomly and performing to strangers didn't appeal to her. The tuition for any of these schools was outrageous, and finally, the biggest problem of them all was her stupid heart. Even if she met this girl and became friends with her, there was no way she'd be able to keep her raging hormones under control. She wouldn't survive being that close to her all the time. The smallest incentive could push her from a normal human being to a bat-shit-crazy psychopath.

It was insane, really. She'd listen to her logic and tell herself she's on the verge of being a psychopath and forget the idea, only to have it pop up again the next day when she saw another brunette. Out of all this fiasco, she's discovered that she had a thing for brunettes that she never knew before.

On a warm Sunday morning, out of boredom she said to Rita, Do you wanna go to that singing diner in New York for lunch? Rita nodded a skeptical, Yes, and Quinn invited four other people. She had told Rita about the girl, and Rita had said to her that if she wanted something she had to go out there and get it. Fate hasn't been kind to her for months, it wasn't going to be kind to her any time soon either. It annoyed her that she had to do everything herself. Why can't something just land in her lap for once? She deserved that. Especially after everything she's been through. But she thought about Rita's words the previous night and felt inspired.

Her anxiety grew with every passing moment on the train. Her friends were chatting happily to one another and she listened with half an ear. The full weight of what the afternoon was about to bring crashed into her when she stepped through those diner doors for a second time time and saw the top half of the girl's body hidden behind the menu. She had no doubt it was her short brunette, she didn't have to do a double take. The girl was immersed in reading the book in front of her, and Quinn was immersed in looking at her she collided into the Latina employee, knocking the tray out of her hand. Quinn apologized and bent to pick it up, and didn't miss the glare the Latina delivered. Her name was Santana, she read on the badge.

Rita asked her whether the girl was in the diner, and Quinn did that thing one does with their head when they nod in a direction. Tony heard their conversation and said, What girl?, and Quinn said really quickly, Nothing, and flipped through the menu. She wasn't very hungry. The flutter in her stomach was butterflies and nerves. Judging by the rapid speed her heart was beating, it could've been bats. She needed to stop shaking before she passed out. Quinn had never been _this_ committed to a person, going out of her way to see them, _wanting_ to see them all the time. She had a hard time understanding it.

The waiter came by to take their orders. Immediately she pointed to the image of a bacon and cheese burger, then Amy said, Bacon again, Quinn, seriously? For some reason that made her laugh. It wasn't even funny. She replied with, Okay, whatever, I'll have the same. Which was a mistake because Amy chose the veggie burger with a side salad. Quinn was too happy to care.

Their eyes met the instant she stood from the booth and turned. She had seen the bathroom sign when she first entered the diner. Coincidentally, her short brunette happens to be sitting close to it. Her eyes were translucent and radiant, as sweet as her smile; a smile Quinn had been longing to see again for months. The room was abuzz with commotion. She couldn't make out a single coherent sound, she couldn't hear her own thoughts, and she couldn't quite place what the look on the girl's face was trying to say, but the closer Quinn came towards her, she didn't move nor look away. It was the most inexplicable thing.

When a short, white-headed man pushed his way across the room and blocked her view of the girl, Quinn wanted to advance on him for the intrusion, but heard him say, Rachel, do you wish to remain working here or should I terminate you this instance due to poor performance?, and she could kiss him because her short brunette went by the name of Rachel. She felt still and serene repeating the name in her head. So distracted she was by it, the bathroom door opened almost hitting her square in the face. Quinn faltered when Rachel stood up, she registered their height difference, thinking this would be the first time she'd kiss someone shorter than her. Her eyes trailed down the length of Rachel's unruly hair; Quinn yearned to reach out to place each strand in its correct order. She glanced at Gunther with his hands on his hips and couldn't help but smile before stepping inside the bathroom.

She was certain Rachel was being punished for disobeying orders when Quinn didn't see her again for the remainder of the time she was there. She was a little disappointed. Quinn was thinking of Rachel scrubbing the bathroom or kitchen floors the whole time she was eating her veggie burger. Their intense eye-contact melted into her, like the way fire melts wax. She felt it prickle on her skin and left an engravement on her heart. Five, ten years from now, she'll always remember this moment. It was the most intense, five second eye-contact of her life.

It wasn't long before she suspected what was most likely happening to her. She was on her way to becoming the bat-shit-crazy psychopath. Quinn visited the diner more often than usual, each at different hours. She tried to find Rachel on Facebook, but of course without a last name she didn't get anywhere. Why are there so many girls named Rachel? The most annoying thing was that Rachel can be spelt four ways. Despite how pretty the girl was, Quinn wished she had an easier name, like Jane. At least there was only one way to spell it. She kicked herself constantly for not having the brains to look at the girl's name badge.

There was nothing like meeting a girl in a singing diner on a random day in New York City to make her explore formerly uncharted emotions and acknowledge that her biological imperative may not include the drive to procreate, that she's attracted to the XX chromosomes instead of XY. Nevertheless, it wasn't about categorization _or_ chromosomes. It was how she felt about another person. The chromosomes were minor in comparison to the fact that she might actually be in love for the first time in her life—to a girl she's never spoken to and has seen three times.

Her mother would likely have a heart attack if Quinn ever told her that.

Visiting the diner every Sunday at twelve-thirty was slowly becoming a ritual. She never gave church this much dedication. Initially she visited the diner on random days at random times, but she wasn't seeing Rachel and she needed a new approach. She needed a set time and a set day, and there wasn't a better day than the day they made eye-contact. She didn't go in every Sunday, of course. She didn't want to be known as the girl who goes to the singing diner every Sunday waiting for Rachel who most likely didn't know she existed and be called a stalker. Because out of all things, Quinn Fabray is _not_ a stalker. Except that she kind of is. Unconsciously.

On November 7th she decided to have lunch. Rachel wasn't working, but it didn't matter. She was served by Kurt, the boy with neatly trimmed hair and the thought of being near him made her giddy with excitement because Rachel had been near him. It _must_ be some kind of celestial sign like Venus or Jesus or whoever is finally giving her some luck.

Looking at herself in the metal napkin dispenser, all she could think about was how downright ridiculous this whole situation has become. It isn't about Rachel anymore, although she did play a big part in this. It was about an absolute reclassification of her sanity. And she is not _insane_. She's had crushes before, more than she could count on two hands and ten toes. This crush would dissipate if she could just leave it alone instead of chasing it like a mouse chasing a piece of cheese. If she and Rachel were meant to be together, or have some sort of contact with one another, the universe will do it's magic and Rachel would be in her life. Fate would bring Rachel to New Haven. They'd bump into each other on the train or on the street. This needed to stop. _S_he's watched enough _American Horror Story: Asylum_ to know what they do to mental patients and she couldn't risk getting a lobotomy. With that final thought she finished her seafood platter and paid the bill.

Her logic went completely out the window when she saw Rachel hurry into the diner, apologizing profusely to Kurt and the manager, who grumbled and he called her over to the cash register. Quinn realized the moment she looked into Rachel's brown eyes how completely helpless she was against her. Rachel was like a cyclone, this fascinating, yet deadly force of nature that carved a path straight through her defenses no matter how hard she tried to fortify them.

She broke eye-contact, forcing herself to say, "I'd like to pay the bill." She was finally close enough to look at the name badge and the correct spelling of her name.

Rachel muttered a throaty, "Yes," and then pressed buttons on the register. Quinn was slightly annoyed because she didn't expect such a short response.

Then just for a moment it seemed everything had gone silent except for Gabrielle Aplin's _Start of Time_ playing on the jukebox. The lyrics, _When you walked into the room just then, it's like the sun came out_, was all she could think about. Noise wound down, as if the great industrial world decided to no longer be, had switched itself off at the fuse box and all that remained were the harmonics to the song.

"Are you paying cash?" Rachel asked.

Quinn jolted back to reality and said, "Credit."

She held the pen poised over the dotted line of the receipt, thinking of writing, _You are beautiful_, or even her phone number, finally signing her dull signature in basic handwriting rather than its usual cursive, on account of wanting Rachel to know her name. And if she was really lucky, Rachel would look her up on Facebook and their lives will intertwine.

"There you go. Is that all right?" Quinn said.

Rachel didn't look to see if the signatures matched, pressed more buttons on the register and a receipt printed. Quinn wanted her to say more, like, "Yes, that's all right", and ask Quinn out to lunch or her phone number. It was polite to answer a question, after all. Quinn couldn't stay bitter for long though. Rachel smiled at her as she slipped the receipt across the counter, and despite the gargantuan whining of chatter around them, she could only hear the sound of her pounding heart.

She turned around and walked out through the gates of heaven. She was flying.


	2. Chapter 2

**I apologize for the delay! This story won't be very long, I'm aiming for five chapters. Thank you for all the reviews. Happy reading.**

**I own nothing.**

* * *

**2.**

_La Douleur Exquise _(French): _The heart-wrenching pain of wanting someone you can't have._

**•••**

**The beginning signs of Quinn's insanity.**

Quinn was losing her mind. It completely went out the window the moment she started checking _Facebook_ ten times a day for a friend request. She had put so much effort into making certain parts of her profile public—the places she's lived, work and education and most importantly, her relationship status—now it was all going to waste.

Two weeks later, with still no friend request from Rachel, she decided to try her luck again and this time the universe was on her side. Rachel was clad in her red and white Spotlight Diner uniform and Quinn's eyes had a hard time focusing on anything except her legs. For a moment she thought she was deeply asleep, because this was the sweetest dream ever. She felt Rachel's gaze on her as she took a seat, which was the only reason she knew this was real.

She pretended to read the menu, but was very aware of Rachel's every movement. She started to tremble. Her feelings for Rachel have accumulated in the span of twenty-four hours without her knowing. No, not feelings. Anything that hurt this much can't be generalized in the classification of 'feelings'. Being in this much agony can only mean one very specific thing. She was too scared to admit it.

"Hi, are you ready to order?" Rachel asked politely.

It was a test of her strength to not kiss Rachel. And she meant it as taking every bit of will power she had. "Um, I'll just have tea."

Rachel's eyes were wide, then she bit her bottom lip before saying, "Just tea?"

Quinn could feel her heart thrashing against her rib cage. "Yes."

"Would you like milk?" Rachel asked casually, and Quinn caught the same easy slur in her voice that she had heard the first time Rachel spoke, and she smiled to herself.

She was too busy smiling to herself she forgot to answer and Rachel asked her again, and Quinn could only nod, feeling embarrassed.

Rachel was only gone for a few seconds but it felt like a lifetime as Quinn waited, trembling from the remnants of her emotions. Quinn wasn't sure how much longer she can keep this up. She was thoroughly overwhelmed, has been since she's met Rachel. She found it impossible to comprehend all the emotions.

"Here's your tea," Rachel said, placing Quinn's cup in front of her.

When the back of their hands brushed on the table, Quinn's skin there felt separately alive, and rather burning. Her teeth clenched instinctively, and Rachel turned to walk away, but a few seconds later she was beside Quinn again and said,

"I've seen you here before, haven't I?"

The fact that Rachel recognized her was enough to make her insides jolt from excitement. She smiled widely and cleared her throat. "Yeah, I've been here a few times."

"Do you live nearby?" Rachel asked, smiling.

Quinn was still smiling, as if she had just learned how to smile and did not know how to stop. "No, I live in New Haven. I go to Yale,"

Rachel looked like she wanted to ask something else, but was literally biting her tongue to hold in the words. Her gaze glazed over Quinn with a vague look until she finally said, "You must really like New York."

Quinn shrugged, her nerves suddenly decided to heave themselves into chaotic unrest. She didn't know why but she was so convinced that if she said something related to the statement, anything at all, this whole meeting was going to turn into a catastrophe with Quinn fighting to stave of the impulse to confess all her feelings to Rachel. Instead, she introduced herself, settling for a safer conversation topic. Rachel did the same, and Quinn lost her focus for just a second.

Then Rachel said, "That's not to say that you're illiterate because I know you're able to read my name on the badge."

Quinn raised her eyebrows and a blush spread across Rachel's cheeks. She continued talking. "I've had encounters where after I introduce myself they'll say, I know, I can read your badge. So I was just elaborating that I don't think you're dim-witted. You seem rather intelligent."

Quinn didn't say anything. She liked seeing the blush on Rachel's cheeks intensify. Rachel was now saying how she didn't think Quinn seemed dumb either, and somehow that led to the topic of judging a book by its cover and if she were to judge Quinn by the cover, she'll think Quinn to be a very lovely book, contained of wise scholarly knowledge. And from that Rachel went on to say she despised people that possessed judgement or discretion without knowing what is true or right.

Rachel took a deep breath, coming to a halt in her speech. "I'm sorry I'm talking too much. I tend to do that often,"

"I like hearing your voice," Quinn said, not caring how it sounded.

It definitely surprised Rachel. Quinn could see the shock in her soft brown eyes, saw it in the stiffness of her body when she collapsed into silence. Rachel was looking at her like she'd crawled out from under a rock.

"Thank you, Quinn." She finally said.

She liked the way Rachel said her name, and she liked her lips saying it. An indefinite longing that she had been only vaguely conscious of at times before, became now a recognizable wish. It was so absurd, so embarrassing a desire, that Quinn thrust it from her mind.

"I should get back to work." Rachel said, after a few seconds of silence.

Quinn nodded her acquiescence. She wasn't good with expressing herself when it came to the emotional side of life. Feelings were problematic enough without getting all cagey about them.

She couldn't muster up the courage to say anything else after that. Rachel's presence stunned her into paralysis, froze her throat and she could only sit there pretending to enjoy her tea. She could sense Rachel watching her. It was like a wire connected them, sending a buzz through her body when she became the focus of Rachel's attention.

She left the diner an hour and a half later smiling at Rachel before walking out. It seemed silly to sit there for longer nursing a cup of empty tea. That evening, the dark flat streets of New Haven, the milk bottle that dropped and broke in her sink, became unimportant. There was not a moment when she did not see Rachel in her mind.

There were two things that started to plague her. One, why hadn't Rachel added her on _Facebook_? It has been a little over a month. So writing her name on a piece of paper wasn't classified as the standard method for telling someone to add you on _Facebook_, but she and Rachel had amazing eye-contact. That technically spoke for itself. They shared something magical together, a bond, a connection bounded by destiny. They also had a civil conversation and introduced each other. She was practically sending Rachel telepathic signals.

And two, Quinn had this weird sense of paranoia that someone was following her. You know that thought process heavily influenced by anxiety and fear. It started in the campus library when she saw a small figure wearing a grey hoodie and black boots lurking behind one of the bookshelves every Wednesday. At first she dismissed it. A few weeks later during the day, she sat outside reading _Acting and Stage Movement _and saw from the corner of her eyes the same small figure sitting a few feet away. When the person caught her looking, they hurriedly gathered their belongings and walked away. She saw the same person again as she was pushing the cart in the grocery store and accidentally collided her cart into them. Quinn apologized instantaneously, stepping forward to examine whether they've been hurt, except the person quickly stood up and limped their way out of the store.

Normally she wouldn't think too much of it, but it was eighty-six degrees and she's pretty sure no one usually wore hoodies and black boots in the heat.

She was unaware that insanity had a flavor, like a cancerous tumor pervading her daily life. Prior to meeting Rachel, she was quite sane, but she guessed that there was only so much the human body can take before it has to either explode into a fit of full-blown rage or find another way to expel the situation. In her case, going insane seemed to be the answer. She was becoming that friend no one wanted to be around because they were either depressed all the time or complaining about themselves and how miserable their lives were. She saw the way her friends rolled their eyes whenever she said things like, It's so depressing to have a crush on someone who has no interest in you, and up to a certain point they stopped listening to her altogether to the extent that they'd leave the room.

At Rita's insistence, she started going back to the diner in the hopes of seeing Rachel. Rita would say, Quinn, do you want to be known as the person wondering for the rest of her life 'what if', or do you wanna go out there and do something about it? It was completely cliché and plagiarized from a thousand romantic movies, but it worked. She tried to forget that she was slowly becoming a person on the verge of being strapped to a straitjacket and needed to be hauled to the mental institution, and started becoming the person who went after what she wanted.

After about three weeks without seeing Rachel, she was depressed, obviously. Three weeks going back and forth between New York and New Haven was a lot of money and a lot of hard work—all that walking, listening to teenagers on trains, and it was winter. The hard part was asking her parents for more money. When they asked her why she was constantly going to New York, she used the excuse of wanting to broaden her horizons and limiting herself to distractions. She wasn't technically lying because she did use her time in New York to prepare for exams and to finish those papers she needed to write.

The universe rewarded her with something better: Santana Lopez.

Quinn didn't know what it was but after pouring for her the third cup of coffee, Santana set the pot down and sat opposite Quinn on the booth. Santana slid a piece of paper with a phone number on it across the table. Quinn looked at her questioningly and said, I'm sorry, I'm not interesting at the moment. Thank you for—. She didn't have the chance to finish because Santana said, It's not my phone number, you idiot, its Rachel's. And Quinn said, I don't—. Again, she was cut off. She wasn't really fond of Santana. Not until she said, Every employee knows that you've been in here every day for the past three weeks and prior to this I've seen you lingering outside the diner like a homeless person begging for food.

A searing pain in the form of embarrassment shot straight through to the pit of her stomach and she felt her face growing hot. Her mouth was hurriedly moving to defend herself but she was caught unawares so all that came out were sounds similar to what a baby makes. Santana's wicked bright eyes inquisitively combed over Quinn's shocked expression and said, I know you've got it bad for Rachel. Quinn asked, How do you know that? I happen to enjoy the food here, and she knew immediately Santana caught her bluff and said, Are you kidding me? The food here tastes like it's been dipped in oil and the coffee tastes like sour milk, and before Quinn could respond Santana said, Just take the number, okay? You have this depressed aura around you that makes the plants die when you walk into the room. Santana then added, Rachel's been home visiting her dads for the past few weeks, she'll be back tomorrow.

Quinn tried to hide the excitement seeping through her from Santana, who sat there talking to her as though they've been friends for years. Quinn wasn't particularly paying attention, she heard sporadic sentences like, I'm Rachel's understudy for _Funny Girl_, and, Before Rachel left she made this huge mess in the apartment, and also, I wonder what Rachel will bring for me when she comes back to New York. She wanted to pester Santana for all the facts about Rachel, but Santana's evasions gave Quinn the dissatisfaction of listening to her problems all afternoon.

Her stomach continued to feel fluttery, her palms were starting to sweat, and she had a hard time holding her cup of coffee; they were too shaky in her hand. It occurred to her in a flash of excitement that she had Rachel's number and possibly by the end of the day they'd make arrangements to see each other beyond the diner, with the possibility of making wedding plans in the foreseeable future. Quinn really was losing her mind.

When she was lying in her bed that night and the excitement of the evening wore off, Quinn wondered if the way she dressed made her look obviously lesbian. Santana had so casually given her Rachel's number and didn't ask any other questions. And if she did look obviously lesbian, why didn't the other girls she's had crushes on asked for her phone number? Life would be so much easier if there was some sort of sign to let her know which girls batted for which team, instead of seeing a pretty girl and saying to herself, _I hope she's gay_.

When she was finished with that thought, her mind switched to thinking about what Rachel was doing right this moment. She twirled Rachel's phone number in her hand, but instead of picking up her phone and pressing the call button, she stared at it. Staring at the number created an opening that invited in thoughts she was most afraid of—thoughts created by an evil force disguising itself as reason, poised to manipulate her with common sense. _Rachel wouldn't want to talk to you. You were just some girl she met in a diner. Would _you_ call some random person you met in a diner? And besides, it wasn't Rachel herself who gave you the number, it was her friend. _

Then it crossed her mind to vocalise her thoughts, because in order to cease the fear she'd have to counteract it with other thoughts and so she was saying, What would happen? I'd ask Rachel out to lunch and she would either be interested or she wouldn't. At least I'd have closure. The repetition of these words lulled other relentless thoughts into a quiet meditation. Suddenly it's like the whole of her concaved completely; she realized how pathetic she was being by inflicting herself with senseless torture, so she dialled Rachel's number before her brain could process that she was holding the phone. By the time she came back to her senses, it was ringing on the other end and Rachel said,

"Hello?"

Quinn hesitated, she couldn't think of a single thing to say. Rachel repeated "Hello" a few more times before saying, "If this is a prank call, it's not a very smart one. I have caller I.D. In fact, all technology nowadays have caller I.D., I hope you know that, mystery caller, so you're more prepared in the future."

Quinn couldn't speak. Something had seized her logical mind and disabled it with fear. She took in deep breaths in an attempt to calm her heartbeat back to its resting pulse.

When she found the courage to make a sound, Rachel said, "I hope you have a nice day" and ended the call.

She threw the phone on the bed and stared at the ceiling. The thoughts in her head were loud in the darkness of the room. The silences that she couldn't fill with answers were even louder. God, why couldn't I say anything? What the hell is wrong with me? Rachel's just a girl, like all the other billions of girls on this planet. Quinn knew somewhere deep inside of her that Rachel wasn't just _a girl_. She was possibly _the_ _girl_. She knew the best thing in that moment would be to endure the fear and call Rachel to apologize, or even lie about her phone not working, because giving up was the equivalent of an addict admitting defeat.

Quinn grabbed the phone and redialled the number, literally. It bought her a few extra seconds to compose her panic-addled brain. Rachel answered the phone almost instantly,

"Hello again, mystery caller," Rachel's slow voice went through her, as if Quinn was touching her. "I hope this isn't another prank call,"

Quinn could feel her heartbeat, one, two, three—it was quickening. She started to breathe deeply to stop from panicking. "Hi, it's Quinn. We met in the diner."

It was completely silent. She could hear the _tick_ of the clock hanging on the wall, and in the silence between beats she waited anxiously for the next tick; like the constant noise of an intermittently dripping tap, it kept counting in the silences.

"I'm sorry about before," Quinn tried to sound casual, coming up with an excuse for her inexplicable behaviour. "I spoke but I guess you didn't hear me."

"It's quite all right," Rachel said firmly. Quinn could hear a hint of annoyance in Rachel's voice and her confidence faltered, her mind was racing a million miles an hour wondering if it was because of her which caused Rachel to feel annoyed.

"How are you, Quinn?" Rachel said her name the same way she had said it the first time in the diner.

"I'm good, thanks for asking. I hope it's okay that I called," Quinn said. Rachel said nothing. There was a deadness in the silence between them now, and Quinn grew more uneasy. "I am intruding, aren't I? I'll let you get back to whatever it is you're doing,"

"I'm sorry, I don't mean to sound rude," Rachel said. "I'm a little preoccupied with something at the moment. Can I call you back?"

Quinn took a deep breath and said the next words with some trepidation. "Would you like to have lunch tomorrow?"

There was a few seconds of silence before Rachel answered, "I would love to."

After their quick conversation, Quinn closed her eyes and saw Rachel's intelligent and smiling eyes again as she had seen them. It was quiet in her head, the voices were no longer telling her how pathetic she was. She no longer felt miserable and ashamed and sorry for herself, because it was embarrassing how much she had built that phone call up to be as though she were calling the President. When it's quiet like this, that's when she truly felt a peaceful connection with life.

The next day at 12:20 P.M. Quinn waited for Rachel _not_ in front of the restaurant she had told Rachel to meet her, but across the road on the corner street. Quinn hid herself behind a blue post-box. She had been hiding there close to fifteen minutes, but she hasn't moved except to breathe. It's worse than the first time she had seen Rachel. At that point, she hadn't quite figured out what she was feeling. But now she was hyper aware of it all. Watching Rachel standing there—so peaceful, glancing around the streets, looking as beautiful on the outside as she is on the inside—it should not have been a surprise to Quinn that her feelings were anything but platonic.

She had spent the previous night squandering away hours and hours trying to put a name to this _thing_ she was feeling, and then wasted even more time trying to come up with good conversation topics in order to fill in the awkward silences. She also wasted a good minute trying to make these feelings go away. She classified it as _wasted time_ because it was the most futile attempt she ever made at anything.

Quinn couldn't muster the courage to walk towards the restaurant until exactly 12:30 P.M. Rachel smiled instantly, recognizing her, and Quinn's vision was a blur now because she couldn't bear to look at Rachel's face directly.

She didn't know whether they were supposed to shake hands or hug, or maybe even kiss on the cheek, and then she was thinking about just kissing Rachel because she has sumptuous lips, amazing cheekbones and radiant olive skin—

"Hello," Rachel said, still smiling and not making any attempts to hug or kiss Quinn.

"Hi."

"Are you okay?"

"Oh, yeah," Quinn said, a little distracted. "Should we go inside—" There was a long line outside her favorite restaurant and the only one she thought of taking Rachel to. She had been so distracted the previous night she hadn't thought about making a reservation. The universe had been so good to her she thought her winning streak would continue. "Um, I'll go see about the reservation," she lied, opening the door for Rachel and telling her to wait in the corner.

The restaurant was frenetic, working at full tilt to cater to their guests. The hostess reappeared after twenty minutes or so and Quinn couldn't shake off the feeling that this is the worst first date possible and it was only beginning. She glanced back at Rachel with an apologetic grin just as the hostess said, Can I help you? Quinn's brain was contorting with the effort to come up with an excuse and she said, I don't have a reservation but my dad is a member—. The woman didn't let her finish before interrupting, I'm sorry I can't do anything if you don't have a reservation. If I had a dollar for every time I heard _that_ excuse, and then she proceeded to yell, Next, to the person behind Quinn and in less than a minute Quinn found herself pushed behind the queue.

She didn't quite understand how it was possible for her to be this stupid; did love do that to a person? Taking away one's sensibility and intelligence and replacing it with a nonsensical approach to life? It has been driving her insane lately and she didn't want that kind of stress.

Then a wild, inexplicable excitement mounted in her as she turned and stared at Rachel. Rachel's eyebrows frowned, though she smiled a little and there was no judgement in her eyes. Rachel took her arm and squeezed it affectionately tight. They began to walk, not bothering to talk on the way. Now and then the crowds made them separate, and Rachel would take Quinn's arm again, as if they were lovers. It was most probably love, what she felt for Rachel. Love was insanity, but it was also certainly blissful. A silly word, but how she could she possibly be happier than she was now, and has been since she first saw Rachel?

They went into a restaurant with wooden rafters and white tablecloths, that miraculously was quiet, and not half filled. They sat in a large wooden booth, and Rachel ordered an espresso without sugar and Quinn did the same because she definitely needed a blast of caffeine if she were to make a good impression on Rachel, then she examined the tiredness in Rachel's eyes and wondered whether Rachel had stayed up all night worrying about this date just as much as she had.

Rachel ran her fingers through her hair, once on either side, and looked at Quinn. "I'm surprised you called,"

"Why?" She asked.

Rachel shrugged, her brown eyes flickering over Quinn like fire. "I didn't think you liked me,"

"Why would you think that?"

Quinn saw Rachel wavering to reply, but took a deep breath before saying, "When we met in the diner, you didn't seem interested to talk to me."

Quinn felt rigid with guilt suddenly, as if she had been caught in a crime. She was out of her depth, truth be told, she hadn't thought about how her actions or, lack thereof actions, might have been misconstrued and her apprehensiveness being mistaken for distant and unsociable. "I'm very sorry if I made you think that. You make me nervous,"

Rachel beamed with pleasure and squeezed her hand on the table. "Quinn, you're four inches taller than me. I'm sure you could take me in a fight."

Quinn wanted to say it wasn't just her physicality; it was her exuding confidence of an ambitious star on the rise, that every time Quinn stared at her she felt faintly obscene and mad with joy that she wanted to dance on the street for no particularly reason except that Rachel smiled at her.

But she didn't say any of it and took a sip of the hot espresso. The coffee was so hot she could barely let her lip touch it at first. The tiny sips spread inside her mouth and released a melange of organic flavors.

"I'm sorry about the restaurant," Quinn said. "I honestly had forgotten to make a reservation."

Rachel lifted her head and blew the steam out from her cup of coffee. "Don't be. There's always next time."

The coffee was bitter and harsh on her tongue. It was hot through and through to the bottom of the cup, and Quinn drank it down, as people in fairy tales drink the potion that will transform them. Quinn was drowsily aware that Rachel asked her three questions, one that had to do with happiness, one about her ambitions, and one about the future. Quinn heard herself answering. She heard her voice rise suddenly as a babble, like a spring that had no control. She was telling Rachel all that she feared and liked, of her parents and of being a gigantic disappointment.

Rachel asked her and she answered, even the things she had never told anyone. They talked about their hobbies, how Quinn loved to sketch and paint sometimes, she was thinking of venturing into carving objects like cats and tiny figurines but haven't found the time to start, but she liked best to take long walks practically anywhere, liked best simply to dream. At times Quinn felt she didn't have to say everything to Rachel. She felt Rachel's eyes could not look at anything without understanding completely.

"What brings you to New York?" Rachel asked.

"I love New York," she said, and had to take a moment to breathe a sigh of relief because she thought she had said, I love you. "It's beautiful and I want to learn more about it,"

"But isn't New Haven two hours away?"

"It's worth it." She said quickly and smiled at herself.

Quinn couldn't remember how it began. What happened was that Rachel edged closer to her until she could feel Rachel's knee touching her own and the smell of her perfume, like a special flower. Rachel was talking instead of murmuring, and at times would run her hand along Quinn's forearm. It was because of the continued talking, the faint smile of graciousness, the shocking beauty emanated by the sunlight through the windows, and the adorable head so politely looking at her, that she could not make herself stop listening.

Rachel spoke about her fathers and her ambition to be on Broadway, the horrible ways she was treated during high school but didn't show any anger towards her peers, in fact she wished them well, stating that Santana is now one of her best friends. Quinn felt joyful suddenly, not of Santana but of Rachel's kindness and forgiving nature. Then she knew one word for what she felt about Rachel: pride.

Quinn could imagine two proud parents watching their daughter win an award at two months old, cheering her on from the sidelines and encouraging her to pursue her dreams of being a star despite what other people thought of her. The child, brown-haired, the face golden and happy, and always playing, always knowing her parents would be there for her regardless of the situation. They were so different from her own parents. It was with unnerving discovery that Quinn realized how different they were from one another. Rachel had hopes, dreams and aspirations, and Quinn hardly knew what she wanted to do with her life. Stepping into Rachel's world involved a whole new level of acceptance, a silent and secret goodbye.

"I like this,"

"What?" Quinn asked.

"I like that someone I didn't know asked me out to lunch. It's the way humanity should behave,"

"Are you saying that humans should be stalking other humans until their friend gives them their phone number because the human is too shy to ask for it themselves?"

Rachel laughed, putting her head back. Quinn's heart did a flip-flop long before her mind caught up with it. "I simply meant it's nice to meet new people."

Their lunch was cut short when Rachel received a call from the diner asking her to fill in a shift. They walked along the streets of Brooklyn, the sun setting behind the clouds, and Quinn looked at her phone for the first time to see 4:56 blinking back at her. She started to take Rachel's arm, feeling as warm and happy as the first time Rachel had taken her arm. Quinn was already thinking about tomorrow with the prospects of sending Rachel a good morning text, then it struck her that six hours from now she could text Rachel good night, and she started thinking about the content of the text. Was it too soon to add an _x_ after the _good night_? Perhaps _good night_ was too short and she could elaborate and say, _Have a good sleep, don't let the bed bugs bite_. She frowned inwardly at the cheesiness of it all.

Rachel extricated her fingers from Quinn's, while Quinn was trying to remember when they started to hold hands. Quinn's mind was working very unclearly. It was astonishing how unclearly it worked, though she knew she was simply staring into the space in front of her and that she could not have moved if she had wanted to.

"The bus is here," Rachel said. "I had a lovely time,"

"I can go with you to the diner,"

"Don't be silly Quinn, the subway's right there. You'll have to go back—"

"I don't mind."

Rachel was standing in front of her biting onto her bottom lip, looking at her a second too long and Quinn felt her face blush. Quinn wanted to hug her, she _should_ hug her. But for some reason, she couldn't. She tried not to roll her eyes at how completely witless she seemed. Then Rachel leaned up and kissed her on the cheek. The touch of Rachel's lips was sweet and burning there. It lasted only a second, but she wanted to feel it again and again.

"Will I see you again?" Rachel blurted suddenly.

Quinn smiled at her as the bus doors opened and people started pushing their way inside. She tried to come up with something better than 'bye' and 'see ya', but suddenly it was too late and Rachel was walking up the steps, and Quinn could only say, "I'll call you" before the doors closed and she waved happily at Rachel from her position on the footpath.

* * *

**The beginning signs of Rachel's insanity.**

Rachel had always been technologically illiterate. Technology has never been her friend. The first _Myspace_ video she made had the camera aligned to her breasts for three minutes and twenty-seven seconds while singing to the song _Tonight_ from the musical _West Side Story_. She had accidentally uploaded it and it surfaced on the internet for roughly two months before she realized what she had done. At first she cherished the comments that said, That's beautiful, I would love to see more, It's sensationally huge, and she probably should've realized something wasn't right at the comment, You should be naked next time. But she was fifteen and egotistical, the praise and a thousand hits on the video in less than a day was enough to make anyone feel conceited.

She thought she had finally made peace with technology after she successfully uploaded an appropriate video of her singing. The views on the latter ones weren't great, the comments were even more horrid, but at least the public was getting a good glimpse of her face. And then on a night of boredom and curiosity, she stumbled across her first ever _Myspace_ video on a porn website called _triplexgirls_. Let's not get into how she _stumbled_ upon the video but the fact that she had taken the video down years ago, even going so far as to delete the video from her computer. She first thought someone had hacked into her computer and stolen the video, perhaps she had a psychopathic stalker. But with further research she realized that what you post on the internet, _stays_ on the internet. For eternity.

This was the reason she discontinued her _Myspace_ videos (mainly because she made real human friends), refusing to cooperate with technology. All her research for school assignments were done via books in the library, and she bought DVDs and music CDs supporting the movie cooperations and artists.

It was a dilemma when Santana suggested Rachel find Quinn on _Facebook_. In all honesty, she wasn't quite sure what _Facebook_ was. She had heard of it, of course, when people would say, I'll add you on _Facebook_, I sent you a message on _Facebook_ and the all famous, I poked you. It wasn't easy to use. The first and last account she ever made on the internet was for _Myspace_ and she hadn't used the internet in years, except for Skype calls with her fathers and maybe sometimes stumbling upon _triplexgirls_, but we won't get into that. Kurt had to show her how to update her profile picture and the necessary information. By the time it was two a.m., the only thing she understood was how to refresh the page.

After a week of figuring out the sensation of _Facebook_, she finally found Quinn. Quinn's lived in Cleveland and Columbus and attended Grove City Christian High School. She's currently in Yale and she was single. The word 'single' was flashing back at her, and she finally forgave technology for posting the embarrassingly offensive yet wonderful (due to her singing) video of her breasts on the internet that refused to disappear and has haunted her for years. She made peace with it, for good this time, because it allowed her to know information about Quinn with a single click of a button. She contemplated adding Quinn on _Facebook, _instead opted to check her profile every chance she got just in case Quinn altered any information about herself.

And anyway, she couldn't request to be friends, they didn't know each other well enough. Stalking was an easier option. It allowed her to know information she'd never usually want to know the answers to, for example, Yale had approximately 14, 015 students, 440 buildings as well as 35 Varsity athletic teams. Anyone was able to apply to Yale, and Rachel, being a person of contingency plans, made an account to access the online application to see the process and soon she was applying to Yale School of Drama. She was close to submitting the application, but the prompt of paying the application fee via credit card remained a problem that required her dads assistance.

When Quinn walked into the diner after two weeks of not seeing each other, she felt guilty and apprehensive simply because she knew so much about Quinn without having spoken to her. Rachel tried to hush the clattering of her heart. She was caught and held by smooth-lidded eyes, today it was neither gray nor brown but something between. Quinn smiled a little, turning her head so that the sun glistened her perfect blonde hair.

She could feel Kurt's breath against her ear, whispering, Keep staring like that Rachel, it's not creepy at all. She was about to deny it when Dani joined in on the conversation. Her confidence was shattered by the two of them talking at the same time. Kurt would say, A pretty girl like her can't possibly be single, and Dani said, She could be an undercover movie star, then Kurt said, Maybe she has a role as a waitress and is scooping out the necessary skills to perfect it. Dani replied, That sounds reasonable, no wonder she's been in here so many times. Gunther interrupted their conversation and told Rachel to serve the pretty girl.

Before she took Quinn's order, she smoothed down her skirt to give her hands something to do, and for the exact same reason, to bide herself some time. She didn't know how to start a conversation, but at least she was conscious that there was nothing wrong with the way she looked.

"Hi, are you ready to order?" She said mechanically, in the voice with which she spoke to customers.

Quinn looked at her menacingly yet mystic and exciting. She ordered just tea, which sounded weird considering she travelled two hours from Yale. She didn't say anything else afterwards. Rachel had to ask her twice whether she wanted milk too; all she got in return was a quick nod, and Quinn was careful to make no signs of wanting to further respond.

From somewhere in the past came the smell of lifeless, old-fashioned high school corridors. Rachel was a Freshman and Nora Severton cornered her with a mean little snicker, Hey, New Girl, I have somp'n for you, then she saw red icing flying in the air before it splashed on her face like the impact of falling face first on the ice rink. Rachel stood terrified while Nora's eyes glittered, showing no shame. The students roared into laughter and not one person assisted her.

The same terror filled her now as it had then—a crawling sensation at the back of her neck , a shrinking in the pit of her stomach. Not particularly because she thought Quinn was going to throw a slushie in her face, but Quinn's brisk nature caught her a little off balance. It felt dangerous to cross that path from stranger to friend, especially when the recipient is showing no interest in wanting her friendship.

Rachel placed the cup of tea on the table and the backs of their hands touched. A winey heat ran down her arm and melted into the warm spot where they touched. Quinn's skin was smooth and delicate. Rachel took note that she went to an abundant amount of effort to take care of her epidermis. She added that to the long list of reasons Quinn was the perfect person for her, other items on the list include: blonde, tall, hazel eyes and great hygiene.

She had intended to ask what body cream Quinn used, but reminded herself it wasn't appropriate social etiquette and instead asked, "I've seen you here before, haven't I?"

She was pleasantly surprised by the smile plastered on Quinn's face. It was bad enough that Quinn was bathed in the far away dim of the evening sun. The redish-orange sheen illuminated the curvature of her frame, lighting up her dazzling smile. Rachel's brain began screaming, Kiss her, kiss her! It can't possibly be real that any _one_ human being can look like that. Even her fathers would turn straight for Quinn. And that was the end of her sanity. She shuddered at the thought of her fathers and Quinn together, then suddenly she couldn't get the image out of her head. For the sake of not wanting her fathers to have a heart attack, she wasn't going to mention this during their daily Skype calls.

"You must really like New York." She said, her thoughts scrambling to remember what they were talking about.

Quinn only shrugged. Rachel was overcome with an onset of déjà vu, something too brief and illusive for remembrance, but something in the deepest part of her memory told her that she had seen Quinn beyond the diner, before this moment, long before the day Quinn had signed her name on the receipt slip.

"I'm Quinn," she said, after long moments of silence.

After Rachel introduced herself, she couldn't stop her mouth from moving. She had never in her life spoken to anyone with no filter. Yes, she liked to talk a lot, it was part of her charm and charisma, but her thoughts always passed her brain before they left her mouth. Those wired circuits were defected at the moment as she commented on Quinn's intelligence, and it would've been acceptable if she had stopped there, except her mouth persevered. She delved herself into a bigger hole than necessary.

"You'll be a very lovely book, contained of wise scholarly knowledge. I'm appalled at our generation and the generation after us for being taught to judge a book by its cover. I despise the kind of people whom possessed judgement or discretion without knowing what is true or right."

Quinn's elbows rested on the table, her eyes fixed on Rachel, smiling indifferently. Rachel felt ashamed inside, the way she had when her dad caught her walking from the bathroom to her own room with nothing on. She must have been about eleven or thirteen. For a long time after that she was unable to look at him square in the face. That story is still being told during the holidays.

"I'm sorry I'm talking too much. I tend to do that often,"

"I like hearing your voice," Quinn murmured. Rachel couldn't tell if she was being amused, angry or uncaring, but anyway, her words broke the silence and Rachel was able to breathe again.

She thanked Quinn out of politeness. She wanted to ask Quinn about Yale, what she studied, how long she intended to be in New York. That would count for something, Rachel thought, it showed that she was capable of being modest. But this wasn't the right time. Quinn seemed preoccupied with something, and the hard exterior she exerted told Rachel she didn't want to be bothered. Rachel tried to sound as detached as Quinn, though she heard her shyness predominating,

"I should get back to work."

She sat two tables behind Quinn's, woving a daydream of herself marvellously well-dressed and about four inches taller, being escorted into Yale with budging men in suits. The students gathered around the limousine to witness the famous star whose popularity catapulted to new heights due to her outstanding Broadway production. Quinn was amongst the students, and Rachel handed her a dozen roses with a note attached, _Will you go on a date with me?_ She couldn't risk opening her mouth and making a fool of herself a second time. The dramatics of the nonverbal communication elevated the realisticness of the daydream.

Santana slammed the tray of plates on the table. She was a born slammer, even when the situation called for quietness. How long are you going to stare at her for?, Santana said. Rachel ignored her and continued filling the sauce dispensers. If you're not going to do something about it soon, some other person is going to sweep her off her feet, Santana elaborated. She didn't stop there, she kept saying, A pretty thing like her ain't gonna stay single for long. I doubt she's been coming in here for weeks because she enjoys the food.

Thinking back on it now, Quinn sat on the extreme edge of her seat the whole time she was speaking to Rachel, like she couldn't wait to be left alone. What made it worse was that Rachel enjoyed hearing Quinn's soft spoken voice; it would've been much more enjoyable if Quinn hadn't been so guarded and inaccessible. It wasn't entirely Rachel's fault, despite the fact that she couldn't keep her mouth shut long enough for Quinn to get a word in. A conversation is a two person requirement and Quinn had refused to participate.

She sighed, sneaking a glance at Quinn. Rachel decided not to bother her again, it would be too embarrassing if she were rejected. There is nothing she could do regarding Quinn's nature, it wasn't important enough to call for moral indignation. After all, she reminded herself, she had just met Quinn fifteen minutes ago.

Rachel heard the remaining words of Santana's final sentence as Quinn gathered her belongings and smiled at Rachel before she exited the diner. She turned to Santana and said, I don't have time for a relationship. After the string of bad luck I've had I want to concentrate solely on my career. Santana replied with, Give yourself a break, woman! You haven't had any fun in months, and seeing Quinn has made you feel utterly incredible and you can't deny that. Maybe this could just be one of those shenanigans, something that reaches the parts other forms of fun can't reach. Rachel loved Santana's vocabulary, it was second to none.

There was truth in what Santana was saying, but that didn't mean the fairy lust can be left to flit around unbidden, sprinkling evil desire-dust all over her. It wasn't the mention of Quinn that had her scuttling off, it was the unwanted, obscure feelings she was having. Quinn's the first person she's ever felt this way about; intensely alive, she was floating contently between sleeping and waking. But the books never said anything about the way it made you feel, the first time. There was a lot of stuff about that blissful, carefree feeling. How you can lose yourself. They didn't mention the dull knife-like stabbing, how your thoughts become scrambled, an endless dizziness. They never mentioned how your eyes ached when you're in close proximity within one another and how sick you felt with dread when you're apart. She wanted to feel vindicated and triumphant, but it was more delicate and twisty than that.

The atmosphere around the apartment was just as bad, especially when Blaine would come to visit. She was the fifth wheel, witnessing every intimate touch, adoring dialogue and staring at their significant others so desirously they were most probably imagining sex with one another.

Rachel decided that the next time she saw Quinn in the diner she'd make an effort to start a better conversation, but two weeks had passed and there was no sign of Quinn. As disappointed as she was that she wasn't able to see Quinn, she understood that being a Yale student contained responsibilities and she couldn't expect Quinn to be travelling back and forth between New Haven and New York. So she went to New Haven instead. It was a brilliant plan. She'd accidentally bump into Quinn and tell her that she had applied to Yale School of Drama and she was here to get acquainted with the campus.

Once she arrived, she wasn't sure where to start. All the buildings were of dark red brick, set among clumps of trees and tied together with red brick side-walks. There was the Civil War cannon pointing at the rail road arch which for some reason cut one corner off the campus. Fascinated by it, she walked toward the three-story building hidden behind it. Students were sitting and sprawling around the wide circular steps. Nobody stopped talking, or batted an eye her way, or indicated by the turning of a head that her approach had been noticed.

She tapped a redhead in purple pants on the shoulder and asked if she knew where the drama building was. Since she was here, she might as well explore the competition. The redhead looked at her with interest and said, You're standing in front of it. Are you new? Rachel shook her head and the girl said, You can't go in without showing identification. I can show you around if you'd like. Rachel beamed, Yale students were so generous. Then the girl said, I'm just waiting for my friend Quinn. She won't be long, we can go together.

Rachel felt prickled excitement compounded of curiosity. The Gods were smiling down on her. Less than ten minutes of being in Yale and the first person she spoke to happened to be Quinn's friend? Because really, how many people could be named Quinn? The girl introduced herself as Rita, then she turned to the entrance of the building as if on instinct and said, There she is.

Quinn stood out from the rest of the students. She looked sophisticated in her casual semi-winter attire, as though she'd spent hours every day since the age of twelve just practicing up on being sophisticated. Rachel felt her face going red, then she felt humiliated. Rita turned her body around to wave at Quinn, and Rachel bolted down the stone steps, pass the library and the marble statue of a Confederate general on a horse.

When she reached Union Station, sweat trickled down her back under her blouse. The running coupled with adrenaline caused her to feel so hot her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth, and the hem of her jacket torn where it caught onto the barbwire fence. She didn't have the heart to face Quinn. Quinn would see straight through her lies. It was the middle of the semester, they weren't accepting new applicants until close to the end and orientation usually took place during the summer. She needed a new scheme.

The important thing Rachel learned while she was in New Haven was that Quinn studied drama. This information uncomplicated the stalking that took place over the next few weeks. She was beginning to know her way around campus. The place wore a look of what she considered historical elegance. The red brick buildings all looked alike to her and she wondered how she would ever find her way from one to the other in time for classes.

She knew Quinn's schedule for Wednesdays and soon she was coming back every second Wednesday to wait behind the red oak tree that stood in front of the drama building. She had come up with the perfect dialogue: Hi, Quinn, my friend Kurt here (cue Kurt's entrance) was thinking about enrolling into Yale and we were exploring the campus. I didn't know you studied drama, what a coincidence, that's what Kurt applied to. Quinn would then ask if they'd like a tour and she'll happily accept. But for weeks she couldn't find the courage to do just that, mostly because Kurt was busy a lot of the time and Rachel didn't have any other friends willing to help her.

It wasn't until she followed Quinn to the grocery store one evening and collided into her grocery cart that she knew she had to stop this madness. Luckily she had escaped before Quinn recognized her. She relayed her plan to her roommates when they asked her where she had been going every Wednesday and their response consisted of many curse words which usually accompanied words like 'stalker', 'psychotic' and 'irresponsible'. Kurt told her specifically that she's never allowed to mention this to Quinn. Ever.

Going home to Lima for winter break was a refreshment she definitely needed. Her fathers were the happiest, loving couple she knew and if anyone was to teach her about love it would be them. Her daddy had a theory about love which he expounded practically every time the subject came up, over drinks in the backyard or during movie night. Love, he would say, is a powerful condition like hunger or thirst only more permanent. Deprived of it, it can feel like an obsession; all consuming, a physical pain. Santana had declared a similar, shorter statement on the subject: love is hell on the nervous system.

She put Quinn in the farthest part of her mind for the few weeks she was home. She did things she could never do in New York. She soaked herself in perfumed baths with bubbles popping against her skin for hours. Sharing a one bathroom apartment deprived her of that relaxation. She went shopping in department stores that weren't crowded with selfish New York women who would snatch an item of clothing out of her hands claiming they had seen it first. The stores in Lima carried more than one size of each item. The movie theatres were empty and air-conditioned. Emptiness in a theatre was her absolute favorite since her short stature guaranteed that a person twice her height would always sit in the seat in front of her.

Leaving her fathers has always been the hardest part. There's a sadness in their eyes whenever she has to go, like they're convinced it's the last time they'll ever see her. This time around, the sadness is physically aching. Just thinking about New York sent a shudder of dread all the way down to her wildly uncomfortable heels. She was beginning to wonder what was seriously wrong with her. The obsession she had with Quinn was getting out of control. Lima—literally—gave her heart a break. And she wanted to stay here forever, become the ordinary girl next door. In a town like this, there'll be no Quinns to cause her headaches and heartaches and all the other aches associated with the anatomy.

All this thinking almost caused her to miss the stop at Grand Central. The whole thing hit her in the face: light, color, the intricate crisscross of people coming and going. She felt her phone vibrate through the commotion. She said hello once, then thrice more and still no answer. She took the phone away from her ear to look at the unknown number and thought what a strange way to prank call someone. She said hello again and could hear the person breathing on the other end. Not in a frightening, deranged way, just enough to let her know it wasn't an accidental call. She gave the mystery caller some advice she wished someone had given it to her in high school when she made her attempts at prank calls, then ended with, "I hope you have a nice day" when the person remained silent.

Rachel came up from the echoing underground passage, pushed from behind by a young man with a sharp, angry profile, hindered from the front by an arthritic old woman who hung to the handrail with gnarled fingers. This place is crazy, she thought. Whatever possessed her to want to pursue her dreams in New York? A woman pushing a luggage cart skidded in front of Rachel, and she struck her leg against its metal corner. She walked on without looking down at her leg, though the pain began to blossom there. She went on into the different chaos of voices, women's figures and the smell of disinfectant. Blood was running down her shoe, and her stocking was torn in a jagged hole.

When her phone rang again with the same number, she grumbled not wanting to answer it. Curiosity got the better of her and she answered in what she hoped was a peaceful tone. "Hello again, mystery caller. I hope this isn't a prank call," she finished.

"Hi, it's Quinn. We met at the diner." A chill ran up Rachel's arm, into the fingers that held the phone. A delightful chill.

Rachel had to stop and lean against a wall to soothe the dizziness in her bones that began to rise. There was a quivering tenderness down the side of her leg. This bore no relation to the affect Quinn's voice had on the impact of her body. That was an entirely different sensation.

She didn't quite believe Quinn when she said she had spoken on the phone earlier but the quality of the connection was bad. This is America we're talking about. There was approximately eighty-miles separating them. The connection couldn't have been atrocious enough for Rachel not to hear her. But who was she to judge? If Quinn said that was the case, it must have been.

"It's quite all right," Rachel said. She looked down to see the blood had dripped down to her shoe, and she pushed some skin back into place, feeling sickened. She stayed there continuing with their conversation, talking as delighted as she could through the pain.

She concentrated on the easy tones Quinn's voice exuded. There was no fatigue or worry left. Nothing but her heart pounding fast and a little uneven, and Quinn's accelerated breathing at her ear, and the feeling that flooded through her.

The moment of pure compassion passed much too quickly, and she was back in a hurricane of remembered pain again. She was trying to find a comfortable standing position, and was conscious only that her bones hurt. She vaguely heard Quinn ask her out to lunch. The question made up for all the misery that was inflicted upon her in the past fifteen minutes and she said, "I would love to."

She stayed there for a few seconds after the call ended, then made her way to the bathroom. She wet toilet paper and daubed until the blood was gone from her stocking, but it kept coming. A girl bent over her for a moment and Rachel said, It's all right, thanks, and she was gone. Finally, there was nothing to do but buy a sanitary napkin from the slot machine. She used a little of the cotton from inside it, and tied it on her leg with the gauze. And then it was time to go home.

She drifted off to sleep that night only to find herself traumatised by dreams of lobsters boiling in a pot. She woke up feeling just as stressed as those poor lobsters. She had mixed emotions about this date; if you could call it that. She wanted desperately to get through it and come out on the other side, with all the worry and dread behind her. But as twelve-thirty came closer she was more and more timid about actually going through with it. There were endless stretches where the clock hand didn't seem to move at all, and then she was counting down the seconds, panicking about her clothing choice and the way she styled her hair, then suddenly the hours flew by and now it was time.

Everything she did to delay the date didn't work out in her favor. She left the apartment later than planned so as to miss the bus, but it was running late and she caught it in time. There seemed to be no traffic whatsoever. The bus sped down the streets, she didn't remember it ever stopping at a red light. She took the long route, purposefully walking the speed of a turtle. Rachel saw Quinn hiding behind a blue post-box for whatever reason and quickly turned around to retrieve her steps before Quinn could see her.

In the end, somehow, as if by magic, she arrived at their agreed destination ten minutes early. The wind was like ice against her teeth. She could see the top of Quinn's blonde head from the side of the post-box but pretended not to notice. If Quinn decided not to go through with this date, she would probably keep on waiting, all day and all into the night. One figure came out of the subway's pit, a splintery thin hurrying figure of a woman in a long black coat under which her feet moved as fast as if four feet were rotating on a wheel.

Then Rachel turned around and saw Quinn running from across the street. Rachel took a deep breath. Now that they were standing in front of one another on the footpath she got a whiff of the light, delicate perfume Quinn used, and for her it was evocative of the first time she had met Quinn. Nostalgia rose in her nose.

"Hello," she said, relieved that Quinn had decided to come out of hiding.

"Hi," Quinn responded in a distant tone.

"Are you okay?" Rachel asked, noticing the puzzled dissatisfaction on Quinn's face.

"Oh, yeah. Should we go inside—"

There was a long line from the entrance of the restaurant ending at the corner of the street. Quinn had mentioned it was her favorite restaurant, but Rachel was thankful they were able to go to a much quieter place a few blocks away. Something like embarrassment shone in Quinn's eyes when she couldn't get them a table, and Rachel, like a pin to a magnet, grabbed onto Quinn's arm and pressed herself against Quinn's without a second thought. Without a thought at all, if she were being honest. They walked the few short blocks down the street in silence, and she felt Quinn glancing at her from time to time.

Rachel wanted to continue walking forever, just like this, always like this. She was thinking of walking to Niagara Falls, then all over Canada and the whole of America. She burned with desire at Quinn's touch—yes, she really ached all over—it was like the romantic sentimental poetry you had always laughed at, in the old small-print books.

They stopped outside a restaurant with wooden rafters and white tablecloths and Quinn asked, "What about this one?"

When they were seated at their table, Rachel didn't know what to do or say, and she felt Quinn expected her to do or say something, anything. What she _really_ wanted to do was thrust the table aside and spring into Quinn's arms, to bury her nose in the green and gold scarf that was tied loosely about her neck. Rachel glanced at her face that was somewhat turned away, and again she knew that instant of half-recognition. And knew, too, that her mind was playing tricks on her. She couldn't have seen Quinn before. If she had, how could she have forgotten? In the silence, Rachel felt they both waited for the other to speak, yet the silence was not an awkward one.

Once they finished ordering, Rachel decided to break the silence and be honest, "I'm surprised you called,"

Quinn's eyes were fixed on her. They widened with something like amusement, "Why?"

"I didn't think you liked me,"

"Why would you think that?"

There were a million reasons she wanted to list: I spoke too much, I'm daunting and awkward and you're elegant and beautiful. I am an over achiever who does not apologise for what she wants and will do almost anything to succeed. If we went to high school together, you would've been the cheerleader and I the social reject and you wouldn't have noticed me. Finally, she settled with, "When we met in the diner, you didn't seem interested to talk to me."

The statement unlocked a wide portal of conversation topics. The only pause in-between conversations was when they were chewing their food. Quinn spoke about her favorite books, movies and about politics in a positive light she had never heard anyone speak before. She was honest too, saying that she wasn't very close to her family, she had always known she was an outsider. Her father lectured her about purity on a daily basis, and her mother was different, gentle, sympathetic, but always doing what her husband wanted her to do. Rachel liked her for her enthusiasms, her ambitions and her likes and dislikes. She sat listening, relaxed and motionless, not even sipping on her very strong cup of coffee.

"I know a great deal on how to win enemies and antagonize people," Quinn said when Rachel asked her if she had any other talents. And she laughed and Rachel laughed along with her, not understanding what it meant at all. But it didn't matter, she could laugh along to anything with Quinn.

She gazed passed Rachel for a moment, her elbows on the table and her chin propped on one hand. Rachel watched her. Then for a long moment, they looked at each other. The hum of the restaurant came louder now. Though there was no sound she heard but the ones Quinn made.

"I have to admit something," Quinn said quietly. "You asked me before what bought me to New York." Rachel listened with trepidation. "It was you. I've actually been stalking the diner these past few months hoping to talk to you but I never found the courage,"

Quinn was looking at her puzzledly, her lips parted a little in surprise, and Rachel thought that in the next second Quinn would say, "I'm only joking. No one is insane enough to do that", as if she had not meant to blurt out her deepest, most darkest secret.

Rachel remembered the way she pursued Quinn at Yale, while Quinn was in the exact same situation as she was. This must be love, she thought. The two events knocked against each other like wind chimes, making the other reverberate harder inside her brain. Then she remembered what Kurt told her about never mentioning the incident to Quinn. She began a mental conversation with herself: What would be the harm if I told Quinn? I'd be delighted if someone had come up to me and mentioned they were stalking me because they were in love with me. _Quinn is an entirely different species of human. Look at her, she looks like a Victoria's Secret model. If you told her that she'll get a restraining order against you. _

Gradually, she came out of herself, deciding to take a trip down the most alluring of rivers: secrecy.

"I hope you don't think I'm a nut," Quinn squeezed her hand, pulling it infinitesimally closer to her.

Rachel's eyes skittered to their joined hands and then to Quinn. "No, I'd never think that. I'm quite flattered, actually. I had originally thought you travelled to the diner because you enjoyed the food."

"What's the deal with Santana?" Quinn asked, playing with the uneaten food on her plate.

"What do you mean?"

"She gave me your phone number and didn't ask any questions. I thought it was strange,"

"Oh, Santana has a Mexican third eye. She says it gives her psychic powers,"

"And a really good gaydar," her hazel eyes filled with humour.

Rachel's lips quirked. She liked the way Quinn made her smile without even trying. "I admire that in her. The only good thing about Santana, actually."

Rachel revealed to Quinn about her high school days. She always knew she was meant for bigger and better things, and the bullying didn't faze her much. She told Quinn everything. Watched the shock spread through her, then watched her try and pull herself back so as to not distress Rachel. There was a relief that it was out in the open. Santana's now one of her closest friends and she wanted Quinn to know how much their friendship has grown and strengthened over the course of a few years. But of course she was expecting Quinn to say,

"That's a great quality to have. Forgiveness. I wish I could say the same about myself." She leaned back in her chair. "Where'd you go for winter break?"

She started telling Quinn her life story. But not in tedious detail. In six sentences, as if it all mattered less to her than a story she had read somewhere. The facts didn't matter much to her, whether she wished to have a mother-figure while growing up, or if she had other ambitions besides Broadway and New York, or whether her fathers encouraged her to pursue her dreams because her mother had a talent for singing and acting and they wanted Rachel to follow in her footsteps. Or whether she had been happy with their choices. Because she was happy now, starting today.

And before either of them knew it, the afternoon light was getting duller. She didn't know whether she had eaten anything or not; the plates had been removed and she couldn't remember what she ordered. She had no awareness of time's passing either. The air around them felt light and clear, the way it feels after a summer thunderstorm. Blurred by varying emotions, her memory refused to give up any definite picture of how she so happened to be sitting right next to Quinn. She must have maneuvered her chair closer, or perhaps Quinn had? Maybe they were always sitting this close. No, she thought, because they started an arm's length apart from one another. The dusky and faintly sweet smell of Quinn's perfume came to her, a smell suggestive that was her own, and Rachel leaned closer toward it.

For a little while she thought she had been plunged into an extraordinary fantasy, because this was a magic moment and everything in the world was absolutely all right.

"I like this," Rachel said calmly.

"What?" Quinn stirred the glass in front of her with a straw, smiling.

"I like that someone I didn't know asked me out to lunch. It's the way humanity should behave,"

"Are you saying that humans should be stalking other humans until their friend gives them their phone number because the human is too shy to ask for it themselves?"

Rachel liked Quinn's quirkiness. It was nothing like Santana's hostile remarks. Her heart missed several beats before she replied, "I simply meant it's nice to meet new people."

The call from the diner cut their lunch short. Santana called in sick with a fever but Rachel didn't believe it for a second. She was probably gallivanting around New York somewhere ignoring her responsibilities. Quinn took her arm as they walked along the streets of Brooklyn. Instantly, she was wrapped in a warmth and comfort she had never dreamed of, and then a stirring, an awakening. All over her body sensations arose she had never known before. Rachel laced her hand in Quinn's, entranced by the rapidity of the pulse she found.

These sensations hasn't anything to do with movies and the sweet rush of love songs, or even the poetry she used to copy at the library and carry around in the back of her Chemistry book. Those were surface things. Two-dimensional, like pieces of paper.

At the bus stop, she extricated her fingers from Quinn's and smiled at the confusion in her eyes. "The bus is here. I had a lovely time,"

She couldn't think of anything sweeter than when Quinn offered to go with her to the diner. Quinn had a look on her face that spoke much more than gratitude. It made Rachel want to wrap her arms around her and hold her until the sun came up. The thought made her stomach flutter. It was the most jarring, inexplicable thing.

Rachel sensed that Quinn wanted to hug her, but something wouldn't let her do it. She stood there, shuffling her feet like they'd gotten a mind of their own to run far and fast. It's like there's an invisible wall between them and it wasn't going to come down any time soon, even though she longed to chip away the bricks and mortar.

With the courage from an unknown source, she leaned up and kissed Quinn on the cheek. Her lips touched Quinn's skin lightly, then separated altogether. She should be nervous, considering she hasn't felt this way about anyone since forever, but there was something about Quinn that put her at ease.

"Will I see you again?" She blurted suddenly.

Quinn smiled at her, a little flattered, as people started pushing their way inside. Of course she would see Quinn again, Rachel thought. An idiotic question.

"I'll call you." Quinn said, before the doors closed, and the bus backed fast and turned away into the busy afternoon streets.

She went through the remainder of the day with Quinn's presence continuing to invade her mind.


End file.
